


You've Got Time to Grow

by zaemitgetta



Category: Pentagon (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Bullying, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Jun makes an appearance, M/M, Multi, Violence, filmmaker!changgu, poet!shinwon, producer!hui, professor!hongseok, singer!hui, singer!yanan, writer!shinwon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-07-28 02:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16232564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaemitgetta/pseuds/zaemitgetta
Summary: Retrospective private boarding school au where Pentagon members are expat kids studying in Baguio City, Philippines





	1. Moving Parts

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first foray into fan fiction, I’m writing this mainly to get over a writer’s block I’ve been having for the majority of the year. Please give it a lot of love.
> 
> In a nutshell, this is a retrospective private boarding school au where Pentagon members are expat kids studying in Baguio City, Philippines. It’s retrospective because they are adults in the present time, and looking back at their experiences during the time that’s elapsed and how these have led them to the present.
> 
> Before I start I feel like I need to make a few notes. First would be with regard to style. I’ve always wanted to write following Whitney Otto’s style, which deals largely with vignettes in order to present a general theme or idea. My favorite book of Otto’s is “A Collection of Beauties at the Height of their Popularity” which I read in college. If you’ve read it, you will notice some callbacks and references in this fic, the style will be similar and I’ve taken inspiration from the patrons of the Youki Singe to breathe life into the characters here. This fic involves all the members and then some. Each chapter will revolve around different Pentagon members, each with their own color and narrative voice. Some stories may overlap. The timelines might be different for each story. Nonetheless, the setting and milieu will all be in the same Universe. *wink wink*
> 
> Another note is with regard to plot. In Otto’s book, she used ukiyo-e woodblock prints from Japan as a launching point for the narratives she told. In turn, the stories I will write all spring forth from songs by Trixie Mattel, an American drag queen who is also an amazing songwriter and country music artist. 
> 
> The title of this whole fic is a lyric from her song, “Soldier,” which will be the basis for a larger chapter later on. If you haven’t listened to her music, please do. The stories and titles will be based on her songs, so if you like, I recommend listening to her songs before you start a chapter or towards the end. I believe it adds to the experience but it’s not required.
> 
> Please observe tags as added.
> 
> Even now, I thank you for giving your time to this fic, I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Z

Living's like a jigsaw  
And the farther in you go  
If you're missing pieces  
You never really know*

It was almost midnight, and Shinwon hurried to get his keys out of his coat pocket so he can open his apartment door. The cold July night breeze hit him in that space between getting out of the cab and into his building. The air smelled like grass and dirt after an early evening rain. The inky sky was clear, having been cleansed of the clouds that usually hung there in the late afternoon. He stood by the entrance of his building, taking in the quiet of the late hour, steadying himself from the slight alcohol fog that cushioned his brain. The moon was a full, deep red.

He had meant to come home earlier (he didn’t want to miss the schedule today) but Changgu and Hongseok had insisted on more drinks and more drinks and he found it hard to refuse. After all, it wasn’t everyday that you attended a special screening for one of your best friends’ films, especially when that film was about the city that meant so much to all of you.

Baguio City. City of Pines. City of Lights. The city of their childhood and adolescence, witness to the many ways that they were both stupid and brave, both afraid and wise beyond their years. Changgu loved this city, and when he finished his degree, he made it a point to come back and make it. He and Hongseok had gone to uni together, and somehow returned to Baguio as lovers.

“Did you send invites to the rest of them?” Shinwon asked.

“Yes, well,” Hongseok answered before Changgu could get a word out, “but, you know, they’re all either busy or travelling or busy travelling. It’s ok, there will be a screening for the film in Seoul, too, so hopefully they can come then.”

“What he said,” Changgu scoffed at the young professor’s enthusiasm and regarded him for a little bit, took in his soft brown hair, tinted almost to an ash color, the boyish but worldly demeanor that endeared him to everyone else without much effort. 

“I really hope they do, hyung,” Shinwon said, pausing a bit at the mention of Seoul. He had come back from that city to here more than a year ago, trying to focus on himself and his writing. For once. “I think they’d like it.”

The conversation trailed off after that, as Changgu tended to the other guests, making small talk and making sure their glasses were filled with wine or handing out the finger foods that Hongseok had whipped together as only he can. The screening was at the small Cinematheque near the top of Session Road, located on the lower floor of a hotel that had originally been built in 1909 as a dormitory for American workers in the former hill station. The venue seated about 50 guests, now composed of critics, students, professors, writers, friends, lovers. 

The Q&A went exceedingly well, there was no need to push and prod for questions. You could tell that the audience was engaged, such was the charm of Changgu’s direction. What amused Shinwon the most was how Changgu took it all in stride, with his usual charming self, all smiles and humble nods. With a fancy foreign degree and all these accolades, a lesser being would have grown arrogant, but not him. Hongseok was beaming the whole time, Shinwon was worried his face might fall off.

After all was said and done, the three of them were left in the empty cinematheque, eyes a bit glazed, words a bit slurred, looking up at the expansive white screen in front of them.

“You really did it,” Hongseok said in a low and serious voice that did not disguise his awe. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, hyung,” Changgu smiled back at him.

It was all very soft.

===  
Shinwon finally managed to enter his tiny apartment after fumbling for a few minutes. He flipped the light switch on and laid down his bag on the narrow table beside the door. He took his shoes off before going any farther, trying not to bring dirt into the otherwise spotless flat. It was a small studio, but it was enough because it was all his. At first, when he moved in, he thought that he would be lonely, living alone for the first time in years and/or stifling, living in such a small space. Eventually, he learned that there was something infinitely charming about the whole setup.

For one, he could be as messy or as neat as he wanted to be. No one expected him to clean up, and he didn’t expect anyone else to keep the space neat. He also had lots of time to focus on writing, though sometimes he still found himself distracted, thinking about the past and the people who lived there. Like him. And them.

He had taken the apartment quickly after a few days back in the city. Changgu and Hongseok were very generous with their own tiny house, located in the farther woods of Sablan. The house stood on a clearing overlooking La Trinidad and Baguio, and on clear nights like this when you could see above the haze of pollution hanging over the city, the stars were a beautiful sight.

It was literally one of those tiny houses you would watch on television or on YouTube, only about 37 square meters, but with a full bed, a living/dining area, a functional kitchen. However, it did not have wheels, mostly because city ordinances were vague on how to classify potentially mobile homes. Hongseok had insisted on building it. He even helped with carpentry and electrical work, much to the surprise of the local workers, who’d thought the young, dignified-looking Korean professor could not even lift a hammer. Changgu was surprised, too. Hongseok was handy around their previous homes, but he didn’t expect him to actually build one. Beside the tiny house, they had also built a tiny office for Changgu, where he could work or just be alone when he needed.

It was charming, like them, but it was really too tiny for three people and Shinwon, with all of his 184 centimeters, all legs and torso, didn’t want to burden them any more than he felt he already did.

So he took this apartment, even tinier than that tiny house, and he was happy. It had a narrow layout, with the bed and work desk located towards the far end, right before the balcony. He didn’t use the balcony much. The unit was on the third floor, but he still was a bit afraid of heights so he kept the sliding door closed and placed the desk right in front of it, creating a sort of floor-to-ceiling picture window, where he had a nice view of trees and a bit farther, the central business district. The bathroom was toward his left, right before the small kitchenette and to the right was a scaled-down couch he had custom-made for the size of the place, surrounded by a few ottomans and grounded with a plush rug.

He took his laptop from his bag and opened it on top of the desk, looked for the link of the livestream and started to get ready for bed. He made it just in time for the radio interview. He heard a familiar voice as he started to undress, his body freed from shirt and tie, throwing the dirty clothes towards a hamper. A smile creeps up his face despite him not meaning to. Force of habit, he thinks.

He turned the shower on in his diminutive but well-maintained bathroom. Since he often needed to wait a bit for the water to be a consistent temperature, and also to warm up the otherwise freezing shower stall, he turned back to his laptop. The man on the screen, the guest, had purple-gray hair now. Cute. The last time they saw each other in person, he had a shock of red hair. Shinwon used to tease him that he looked like the clown from It.

He let out a small chuckle as he stood there in the middle of the apartment in his boxers, a towel draped over his broad shoulders, contemplating the distance between Baguio and Seoul. His own hair was shorter now, more like the style he had in high school at Westwood, black and no longer light brown like he used to have it dyed. 

The radio host was going through the motions at the beginning of all interviews, the ads, the small talk. The purple-gray-haired man was smiling, his tired eyes crinkling, gently nodding his head at whatever the host was saying. You’re doing well, Shinwon thought.

“Hui-ssi, could you introduce us to your comeback title song?” the host asked.

“Of course, thank you for having me here,” Hui answered, shy and humble as always, “I think the fans have waited for this album for a long time after my hiatus, so I’m very glad to be finally sharing it. It’s a song I wrote during the break, when I was figuring things out. I hope everyone gives it a lot of love.”

“And how have things been after your break?” the host pressed on. Shinwon could tell that Hui was getting fidgety, but he couldn’t (he would never) let anyone see it. No one else would notice anyway, Shinwon thought. You’re doing well.

“I’ve been doing ok, I think,” he started cautiously, weighing his words with care. “I put a lot of energy into composing, talking to fans, finding myself again. It’s been hard, but being on stage again and showing people what I’ve worked on gives me a lot of energy.”

“That’s good to know. We would really love to hear it!” the host said, her face showing a genuine concern for Hui, like she wants to hug him right where he sat. Shinwon repressed a snort, thinking about how Hui would be so uncomfortable receiving it. She would never do it, of course, but the sympathy on her face made Shinwon want to laugh. If she only knew.

The shower had been running for a good five minutes when he remembered and so he rushed to the bathroom, hung up his towel and took off his boxers before jumping into the stall to wash up. He didn’t bother closing the door (another perk of living alone) so he could hear the purple-haired man clear his throat as the record started playing and he began to sing. His voice, as Shinwon remembered it, was still beautiful and soulful, as always. He was singing a ballad, soft but strong, carried through by melodic piano and a bit of acoustic guitar.

Hui’s song was about losing someone, missing someone. Shinwon stood under the warm water and closed his eyes, willing himself not to break composure after so many months of being all right. He was done with crying. Hui’s song was not for him and he knew it. He knew it a long time ago, long before he chose to open his eyes to the fact.

He finished washing up and grabbed fresh clothes from his closet, quickly getting dressed and leaving the towel on his head to absorb any leftover water. He sat down in front of the laptop just as Hui was finishing his new song. It was already doing well on the charts, Shinwon knew. That was to be expected, the song is good and Hui is good. He was perfect.

The host continued to ask her questions, sometimes reading comments from fans. They still love him, of course, Shinwon observed. Well, he’s not hard to love, you should know, his brain added. He shook his head. No, you can’t go down that road again. He put his delicate fingers on the keyboard and started to check his messages while listening to the rest of the the interview. After a few questions from fans, Hui started to sing his older songs, the hits, and Shinwon was not surprised that he still knew the words. After all, some of the words were his.

The first email he saw was one from his editor, reminding him of the next deadline for the book he was writing, a thrilling collection of erotic poems probably no one would think he had in him to write. How things have changed since last year, he thought to himself. By sheer stroke of luck, an agent had seen one of his poems, filled with angst and longing and, yes, sex, in a local Korean zine and asked if anybody represented him yet. Of course, nobody did. They exchanged contacts and after a month, a book deal was being talked about. He had never thought his poetry would become a hit. After all, who read poetry nowadays, but apparently, like in music, sex still sold.

He shot his editor a quick reply, hoping that it would suffice to calm their nerves about the deadline. Shinwon never missed deadlines. Sometimes, though, he would avoid committing to anything just so the deadline wouldn’t exist in the first place. How apt, he scoffed at himself. He scanned through his social media, where he followed or kept in touch with the rest of the boys. Well, not all of them, but most of them. 

Hui was singing another song, an upbeat one, one that the two of them had written early in his career, about their hopes, about having so much to offer but so little opportunity to show it. Hui was already an established composer and producer at his young age, but he also dabbled in releasing music that he himself performed. All attempts thus far had been met with minimal success. The public didn’t know what to do with him, and competition was fierce. But they soldiered on, and the song they wrote sprawled out on a patch of grass, Shinwon with his guitar in hand, and Hui with his pen and notepad, became the hit they needed.

“I wouldn’t have made it without you,” Hui had told him.

“Yes, you would,” he said.

His phone buzzed beside his left hand, and he checked the messages. Several notifications and some messages were unread while he was at Changgu’s screening. Shinwon smirked to himself. They were from random people he had been seeing around the city, but none of them were serious. He didn’t want serious right now, didn’t need it. What he wanted was experience.

He replied to the messages and went back to his SNS. After a good amount of notifications he had to clean out, a message request caught his eye. He looked at the details and his jaw dropped when he saw who had sent it. They hadn’t seen each other since Westwood, when the sender left abruptly, without a word to any of them. Well, maybe except Changgu, he thought. They were connected on SNS, but they rarely spoke, and the sender rarely posted anything on his personal page. But then why is he messaging me?

Dear Shinwon-hyung,

How are you? I hope you’re doing fine, and that you still remember me. I’m sorry to bother you, but I heard that you’ve returned to Baguio a while ago, and I don’t really keep up with anyone else. I have a short break after my tour, and I want to visit Baguio again. Maybe we could meet up? 

Sincerely,  
Yanan

Yanan was coming back to Baguio after eight years. Changgu and Hongseok were already happy. Hui was having a comeback. Shinwon didn’t want anything serious. Who knows what the others were doing.

He buried his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes, sighing. He looked up at the sky through the large picture window. After a long while, the moon looked like it was burning red again.

======

When you're ticking like a timepiece  
On which you can rely  
Wonder why you wind it  
When you're running out of time*

===  
*Moving Parts, Trixie Mattel  
**Also, listen to Red Side of the Moon, Trixie Mattel


	2. Air Between Your Lungs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Yanan and are taken back to his days at Westwood and how he got there in the first place. Featuring Shinwon, Hui, Changgu, a boy with messy hair and a boy named Jun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is half or maybe a third of a chapter! I'm so sorry, maybe posting will be erratic as work gets heavier and heavier. I will update on twitter at @zaemitgetta when I do. Thank you for taking the time to read! Please leave comments!

I hope you've got the time to keep that air between your lungs  
I hope you've got the hand to pull the plug when that day comes  
Seen My Man, Trixie Mattel

 

Yanan sat in the crowded bus heading up to Baguio. He imagined how livid his manager would be when he found out that he’d already hopped on a plane bound for Manila from their last tour stop in Singapore. Despite the constant reassurance that nobody would recognize him in this country because he wasn’t popular here, his manager had kept on worrying and worrying, until Yanan was over it and just booked the flight and got on a plane.

He looked out the window and remembered the first time he arrived in the city.

He was sitting on a bus just like this one, with its questionable cleanliness and the musty smell of air conditioning thick in the air. Apparently, there was only one setting for the a/c, and it was freezing cold. He hated the cold. He sat by the window, with the seat beside him empty because his parents were sitting side-by-side in the set of seats across his.

His father was seated near the aisle, back straight and stoic. They hadn’t spoken to each other since the incident. His mother was beside his father, near the window, her hands folded demurely on her lap and face haggard from the almost twelve-hour journey. Or perhaps her fatigue was caused by something else entirely. Something like a sixteen-year-old son she caught in bed with another boy.

He turned back to his window. Why couldn’t they just have gotten a private car to bring them to this god-forsaken place? He knew they could afford it. But with anything that had to do with his family and finances (as well as his family and asking questions), he knew that the philosophy had always been: the less they spent on him, whether it was money or time, the better.

The decision to send him to this city in the mountains was done in haste, but deep inside he believed they’d been planning it for a very long time and just now found a convenient, if not scandalous, excuse. His dad was always busy with business, couldn’t be bothered to check if his only son was still alive and his mother, well, his mother didn’t really have a choice. He was better off somewhere else.

===

“Anie, you’ll be so great in it,” Jun had said, trying to convince him with that reassuring smile of his, his big brown eyes glinting in the midday sun. They were having lunch outside under a tree, no mat under them, just two boys squatting down and eating their packed lunches. It was their daily ritual, away from the noise of the school cafeteria, away from judging eyes.

“You’re crazy. I’ve only sang for you. I’ve never sung for anyone, and I don’t want to sing for this shitty school,” he answered. “They don’t deserve to hear my beautiful voice.”

Jun laughed loudly at that, perhaps too loudly. His face broke into a mischievous grin, pretty head tossed back to expose his shapely neck. Yanan stared. 

“Then just imagine that I’m the only one there,” he said, reaching out to hold Yanan’s face in the cusp of both hands. He moved forward to place a gentle kiss on Yanan’s nose.

“Stop, someone will see,” Yanan backed away, surprised but not shocked.

“Then let them see,” Jun answered, his face the picture of confidence, and did it again.

How could he say no?

===

Yanan wasn’t exactly sure what his relationship with Jun was. All he knew was that, in the frequent absence of his parents, Jun had become his only source of warmth and care. They had been friends for a while, and they hung out at each other’s houses almost every day after school, eventually becoming so comfortable with each other to the point of intimacy. 

Jun was particularly touchy, with his hugs and his hand-holding, face-holding and nose-kissing. If you asked Yanan, he was a vessel of pure light. He was confident and kind and each time Yanan felt himself falling into the dark places in his head, where he often thought of how lacking he was as a son and as a student and just as a person in general, Jun would be there to comfort him and tell him it was going to be alright.

Yet, each time Yanan felt that something else, something he couldn’t control, was about to happen, he would pull away from Jun. There were times when he actively avoided the other boy, dodging him at hallways, not answering his calls or messages, even telling his mother to tell Jun he wasn’t at home when he was just curled up in bed, staring at the wall. If you had asked Yanan exactly why he was doing this, he wouldn’t have been able to answer either. 

Sometimes, it was just too much. Jun’s light was too much, and he felt like a piece of shit for not being able to give that light back. The first few times, when he emerged from this state, the other boy had been hurt by his desertion. Eventually, however, with his kindness and light, Jun learned to understand. Sometimes Yanan needed time.

===

It was during one of these spells when the whole mess started. He was walking home from school, avoiding the practice date Jun had set when he felt something hard hit his head, thrown by somebody behind him. A burst of loud laughter rang in the air. He turned around and before he knew it he was being chased by six other boys who had apparently seen Jun kiss him under the tree. They beat him up bloody and left him on the street.

===

Yanan still can’t remember now how he made it home. Some time had passed and the sky was getting dark when he came to. All he remembers is Jun sitting by the gate of their house, waiting for him, an expression of terror and then anger washing over his face at the sight of Yanan’s broken nose and the cut above his brow and the blood. There was so much blood on Yanan’s shirt, you would think there was a murder involved. Maybe there was, because Yanan felt dead inside.

“Who did this to you?” Jun demanded, eyes scanning Yanan’s face and wincing at all the scrapes and bruises. 

“Some kids,” he answered. “They said they saw you kiss me.”

“What?” was all that the other boy could say, his mouth hung open as he processed the information. “Do you know who they were? Those fucking assholes are gonna die.”

“Just stop,” Yanan said, grabbing Jun’s hand to keep him from storming off in the direction where he came. For the first time in a while, he looked straight into Jun’s eyes, riddled with worry and anger and just a little bit of guilt. Despite his pain, he had seen how much greater Jun’s was, seeing him like this. He grabbed the other boy by the wrist and led him up to his bedroom without saying another word.

There was no one home, his father was at work and his mother was probably off with her friends, playing mahjong or gossiping about the other women who did not make it to their little games.

He dragged Jun in to his room, eyes aflame with an intensity the other boy had not seen before. 

“Anie, what’s going on?” Jun asked. Yanan did not speak, but leaned forward and kissed him squarely on the lips. His mind was a blank and the only thing he felt was the sting of the wound on his busted lip and the sweetness of the other boy’s mouth. Jun did not move away, like Yanan often did. Like Yanan expected. Instead, Jun cupped the taller boy’s face in his hands, as gently as he could, and returned his kisses, his tongue slipping to part Yanan’s lips slightly so he could taste him. Before either knew it, Jun was on top of Yanan on the bed, hands in hair, legs entangled. Jun repeated his question, “Anie, what’s going on?”

Yanan stopped to catch his breath. “I’m sorry,” he said, “we can stop if you don’t want to do this.”

“No,” Jun said, and he almost blushed at how quickly he answered Yanan’s question. “It’s not that,” he added, “but, we have to get you cleaned up, you have so many wounds…”

“I don’t care,” Yanan’s voice cracked, but he kept it steady. He tried to remember to breathe. “I don’t care about anything, I only care about you.”

Jun smiled his understanding smile and rubbed some blood off of Yanan’s cheek. “Me, too,” he said, and in a whisper, he added, “I want to stay with you forever.” He leaned his head down and kissed Yanan ever so gently, his lips barely moving in silent prayer that the other boy would always be safe and never hurt.

There was a gasp by Yanan’s door. 

The taller boy’s eyes widened as he sat up to see his mother standing by the doorway, white as a sheet, eyes filled with terror and disgust, holding onto the doorknob as if her life depended on it.

===

Yanan sat in a chair inside the Headmaster’s Office. His father was again sitting opposite him in front of the Headmaster’s expansive mahogany desk, clean save for a few stacks of paper, a pen holder, a calendar and some picture frames that were turned away from whoever was lucky (or unlucky) enough to be speaking to the Headmaster on a Sunday afternoon. Yanan wondered if they were pictures of his own children, wondered if they were staying with him in this city, or if he had sent them off to some faraway place, too.

His mother was sitting quietly on a bench by the bay window with her eyes trained on the tips of her shoes. She didn’t say a thing. She was never asked anyway.

The Headmaster and his father were talking about some matters that Yanan didn’t care to hear about. Any time that he was addressed, he nodded his head but did not lift his eyes. It was like he was in a daze, like this was not happening to him, like he wasn’t even there but somewhere else. Somewhere in Shanghai, in his own bed, in his own house, holding Jun in his arms while they lay together as they were, nothing less, nothing more.

“Welcome to Westwood,” the Headmaster said in Mandarin as Yanan snapped out of his own thoughts.

“Thank you,” he answered, bowing.

===

Westwood School had a sprawling campus near the center of Baguio City mostly covered by Benguet pine (Pinus kesiya), which made it distinct from its immediate surroundings. To say these parts of the city were crowded was an understatement. Land was already dominated by mid-rise condominiums, mini malls and tourist attractions. Westwood, however, maintained most of its oldest foliage, having been declared a heritage site by the local and national governments. The fact that it was an American colonial installation seemed to strengthen that decision instead of undermine it. 

The school itself was established in the 1900s by American missionaries who had joined the influx of colonial officers, soldiers, builders and others who trooped up the treacherous Benguet Road (now Kennon Road) to build a hill station. Aside from its lush foliage, the school was also able to preserve some of its oldest structures, namely an old chapel that was rarely used in favor of the new one, and the ruins of its first dormitories that were now mostly used by students as a hiding spot when they wanted to evade teachers’ prying eyes. Still, most of those that were currently standing on the expansive campus were green and white wood-clad post-war buildings punctuated by a newly-restored and renovated administrative building.

Yanan and his parents were escorted by a senior staff member, who was giving them a rushed but obligatory tour of the campus before he was to bring Yanan to his dorm room, where his belongings had already been brought up earlier. 

“You will find that our students are all well-mannered and come from good families” the staff was saying. Yanan understood that Westwood was a very exclusive all-boys school, and that the tuition was steep. He knew from conversations around him since he was maybe ten that this school, despite being in the mountains of the Philippines, was sought-after not only for its curriculum but for its name. Most students who studied and graduated from it went on to other foreign universities in a variety of careers, whether it was in science or the arts. 

Despite the cost, it was still considerably less expensive than boarding schools in the West, anyway, so Yanan understood why his parents had chosen to bring him here.

They arrived at Yanan’s would-be dorm room, located in one of the aforementioned wood-clad buildings, which was unceremoniously marked Dormitory 5. The staff led them to the second floor, which had two doors on each side and one on the far end.

“You’ll be staying here. Your roommate should be back after church band practice,” the staff opened the first door to their right and walked in followed by Yanan and his family. The room was simple, one single beds and one desk on each side, a window on the opposite wall with a view of the walkway outside. There were modest closets on either side as well, and Yanan’s suitcase was on top of the empty bed to the left. On the right side, Yanan could see that whoever already lived here had only a few belongings himself, including a guitar which was hung beside the desk.

There was an awkward silence as Yanan turned to both his parents and both parties considered each other for a long while.

“Well, then, we’ll be off,” his father said. “I don’t want to hear you getting in trouble here, son.”

Yanan nodded. His mother let out a sigh and looked down again. He bowed, and that was it. They were gone.

He sat on the bed beside the suitcase and felt his chest tighten and his breath turn shallow. He stared at the bed opposite him, only slightly wondering about his future roommate. For the most part, his mind was blank but also going into overdrive, still trying to grasp the situation at hand. He was always miserable around his parents, that was true. In fact, he thought he hated them. Being an only child was an enormous responsibility and he always felt lacking in one way or the other. He’d wanted to leave Shanghai for the longest time but, now that he thought of it, he longed for Shanghai. Because Shanghai was where Jun was. 

He took the suitcase off the bed and let his body fall numb, thankful that it was at least able to accomodate the length of his legs. If anyone was wondering, he’d had spent the most of the last month crying into his pillow about the whole situation, but now he felt empty. He wondered if Jun was mad at him for leaving, for not fighting...enough. It was a fact that when his mother saw them that day that he felt as if his soul had departed from his body, and he let things just happen. He did not return to school the next day, he never got to sing with Jun in front of the whole school. He never even got to say goodbye. 

“Yah,” Yanan didn’t realize that he had dozed off from the exhaustion of the long travel from Shanghai when a voice came from the opposite bed.

Another boy was there, also tall, with black hair that would potentially get into his eyes if he hadn’t kept it well-groomed per school policy. He looked Asian, and was handsome, but Yanan couldn’t tell exactly from where so he just blinked himself awake and didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” the other boy was speaking a language Yanan couldn’t understand, so he didn’t say anything. After a while, the other boy said, “Oh, sorry, are you Korean?” Yanan got the tail-end of the question and shook his head.

“Oh, can you speak English?” the other boy asked again. Yanan could, but he didn’t want to, so he shook his head again.

The boy furrowed his brow then, trying to think of how to communicate with the new arrival. His eyes went from Yanan to the suitcase at the foot of the bed and reached out to check the luggage tag. A wave of recognition washed over his face for a split second, only to be replaced by a furrow on his brow yet again.

“Uhm,” he cleared his throat, “My name is...Shinwon,” he said in measured Mandarin, clearly learned inside a classroom and never practised with actual Chinese people.

Yanan looked at him again, his face expressionless, thinking it was the least he could do to tell this roommate his name. Finally, he said, “Yanan.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Shinwon said, then added slowly, in remedial Mandarin, “Uhm, dinner is soon. Get ready.”

“Not hungry,” Yanan answered before he turned to face the wall and closed his eyes, tears threatening to fall out again. He hated his parents, hated them so much. But in that moment he felt so lonely and empty and...discarded. He just wanted them to turn around and take him back, their only son. He would be good, he promised in silent prayer, he would do anything for them to take him back. He’d beg on his knees. He held back a sob as Shinwon finally stood up and walked out of the room.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @a_thel_stan,@VioletBalsam, and @burngrl for betaing! :)


End file.
